


The Beginning of the End of the World

by Omicheese



Series: Tales of Doriath [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Young Love, young people doing stupid things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omicheese/pseuds/Omicheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The arrival of his Majesty's Noldor relatives was the most interesting thing that had happened in Doriath in what felt like ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one makes a reference or two to [The Coming of the Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2706473) but probably stands well enough on its own.
> 
> I'm operating under the assumption that, by elf standards, Celeborn is a bit of a socially awkward goober, or at least was in his youth. Whenever canon contradicts itself, I'm going off of the published Silmarillion; and whenever canon fails to address something, I feel free to draw my own conclusions about it.

Mablung was wearing his patient face. “Celeborn.”

Celeborn let his posture sag. It was not even worth returning the wooden sword to his shoulder. “I know. I am terrible at this.”

“You are not…” the moral conflict between telling the truth and being polite was visible in Mablung’s expression, “necessarily terrible at this.”

“Necessarily.” It was not reassuring.

“Your problem is that you need to stop thinking.”

“…How is that supposed to help me?” Celeborn could just as soon stop his heart from beating as stop his mind from thinking. Did Mablung want him to be stupid? How could stupidity possibly be a good thing?

“You think too hard about your movements, so you hesitate and move awkwardly,” Mablung explained.

“He cannot help it. He was born like that.”

“Shut up, Thranduil.”

Mablung ignored the commentary and continued with the lesson. “The less you think about what you should be doing, the more easily you will move and fight. You know how to strike, but you cannot connect your movements together into fluid combos because you worry too much about the mechanics. Orcs are mindless. They never worry. As you sit thinking, your opponent will take your head off.”

“I see.”

“You should watch Thranduil as he moves.” Thranduil threw some lazy, perfect hits on the wooden practice dummy, as easily as someone might tie the laces on their shoes. Show off. “Do you see how he strings combos together so cleanly and attacks so consistently? He can do this because he is not concerned with what he is doing. He simply does. In a fight, you must always be moving.”

“See, cousin? I told you.”

“Shut up, Thranduil.”

“That said, Thranduil, your problem is that you do not think enough.”

“What?!”

“Orcs are mindless, but their masters are far cleverer than you think they are. They will try to lure you into traps, and with the way you are fighting you will certainly fall for them. You need to be more aware of your opponents.”

Thranduil huffed and looked away. He seemed to be aiming for an expression of impassive disdain, but with his childish features the overall effect was a pout.

A small voice called from a tree overhead as a girl swung low from a branch. “Mablung? Are you very busy? Oh, hello, Celeborn and Thranduil! What are you up to, carrying those sticks?”

Celeborn nodded politely. Thranduil took time out of his pout to smile at her. “Hello, Nellas.”

“I am teaching the boys to fight, Nellas.”

Her eyes opened wide, as though the concept of fighting was new to her, or perhaps just the idea that it needed to be taught. “Are there rules? Is it like a game?”

“It would be a very cruel game, if it were that.” Mablung frowned. “In battle, to lose is death. This is why they need training.”

“They are so young, though. Would not their time be better spent playing tag? I could play along, if we were playing tag.”

Mablung was a very patient elf, but even the most patient could be tried. Explaining things to Nellas was not always easy. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, Beleg sent me to find you, if I could. Someone is here, you see.”

His eyes suddenly narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Someone is here in Doriath. He must be new, for I have not seen him before. He came in through the Girdle. Beleg found him and is leading him to Menegroth. He asked me to tell you if I found you.”

“Why did you not _start_ with—no matter. Celeborn, mind your cousin while I am out and try to get a few practice fights in. Remember what I told you to work on. I will be back soon.” He left quickly, but Celeborn could hear him muttering, “Every time, it is always the _moment_ I leave…”

Thranduil was still pouting, trying to look down his nose and up at Celeborn at the same time. He was still growing, but for now at least Celeborn was the taller. “Why do they always leave you in charge?”

“Because I am older than you.”

“And stupider.”

Celeborn was trying to come up with the best way to tell Thranduil how utterly incorrect he was—all he managed to say was, “You are an idiot,” which fell short of the mark—when the boy tapped him on the arm.

“Tag.” And he immediately scurried up a tree out of reach as Nellas giggled.

“You are far too old for this!” Celeborn yelled, but it was pointless. They only laughed harder. There would be no more training today.

*

Menegroth was cool and bright, though not quite so bright as the summer sun. The walls glistened white, carved with flowers and the trunks of trees, so intricate they might have been real. One would hardly know it was underground, except for the limestone steps leading downward. That, and the fact that Celeborn usually lost his way completely within the first few turns of the path. Today was much like any other day in that regard. Luckily someone usually found him before it got too late.

This time it was Beleg, on his way out. “Hello, young Celeborn, good to see you!”

“Hello, Beleg.”

A smile quirked its way onto Beleg’s lips. “You _can_ see me, yes?”

Celeborn scowled. He would never live that down. “ _Yes._ ”

Beleg laughed. “I just thought that I should check. Daeron’s new song has become quite popular out on the marches. What brings you inside on a day like this?”

“I heard that someone had come in past the Girdle.”

Beleg did not seem perturbed by the news. “Yes, apparently he is the king’s nephew. Angrod or Angarato or something like that. He had the blondest hair I have ever seen.”

“I did not realize that his Majesty had a nephew aside from my father.”

“You surely were told that Elu Thingol’s brother Olwë continued West, back when Doriath was founded? Apparently his grandchildren and some other elves returned to Arda recently. They made it here the day the Sun came.”

“How did they get here?”

Beleg shrugged. “I have no idea. Honestly, this one had the silliest accent I have ever heard. Some six times worse than Saeros, and that is bad enough. I am lucky I understood half of what he was saying. At least the king seems to understand. He is better with language than I.”

“How long do you suppose he will stay in Doriath?”

“I do not know. He said he has come as a messenger, so I do not think he will stay long. But I would not worry over it. I doubt that we will see much of him.”

~


	2. Chapter 2

It was more than fifty years before his Majesty’s relatives showed themselves again, though news came in every now and then of the Noldor’s doings in the north.

There was peace, or at least there seemed to be. Doriath was safe. The Girdle was working. There seemed very little reason for Celeborn and Thranduil to continue their fighting lessons, but continue they did. Thranduil had become as tall as Celeborn, and seemed to improve in skill daily. He was as swift as a deer, as strong as wolf, as graceful as a swan, and as precise as a hummingbird. Celeborn, meanwhile, had only recently gotten to the point where he no longer hit himself in the head with his own sword. Mablung called this progress, and told him not to compare himself to others. Thranduil called him a ninny.

Celeborn, however, could read, something Thranduil had not yet mastered. The elves in the north had brought a new writing system, one much quicker and more fluid than Daeron’s Cirth. (Only the dwarves used Cirth now. Celeborn had heard that their fingers were unsuited to anything more subtle than carving rock, though he did not know any dwarves well enough to verify this. They generally kept to themselves.) Celeborn had read every scroll in Menegroth—histories, fairy tales, tax codes, poems, songs—some barely as soon as Daeron had finished writing them. Cousin Oropher encouraged it: he was glad, he said, that Celeborn was good at _something_. Celeborn’s brother Galathil put it in much kinder terms, and said that Celeborn should learn all he could, for one day he would be on his Majesty’s council. Celeborn liked the idea.

It was an indoor day. Thranduil pressed his face into the paper, which was not helping him any. “Why do we need _two_ writing systems? The first one was bad enough!” At nearly 96 years old, he still tended to whine.

“This one is easier.”

“It is _not!_ ”

“It is too, now finish your copying.”

“Why do I need to know how to write if I am going to fight orcs on the marches with Beleg and Mablung?”

“Because your father wants you to participate in government once you come of age, and because he has told me to make you do your copying, or else he will tell my mother and I will be in trouble.”

“Why should I participate in government? That is your job! This is ridiculous!”

“Your handwriting is ridiculous.”

“Go rot!”

“Language.” Though it was difficult for even Celeborn to pay attention this time. His Majesty had invited a few of his relatives to come to Doriath to visit, and today was the day of their arrival. There had been nothing so interesting in what felt like ages. Eventually he could no longer stand it. “Fine. Come to the end of the sentence, and we will go try to have a look at them.”

Thranduil jumped up from his writing immediately. Celeborn highly doubted that he had bothered to finish. “Where do you suppose they are staying?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you going to get us lost again?”

“I no longer have trouble with such things.”

“Only because you drew a map. You should not need a map to find your way around in your own city.”

“That is no concern of yours.”

Menegroth seemed full of people today. Everyone was busy, making preparations for festivities, arranging decorations, cooking, practicing their songs, or else just sharing gossip about what the Lady Luthien might be wearing this evening. No one had any attention to spare for two young elves winding their way through the crowds.

The throne room was off-limits except for formal audiences and court, and even still Celeborn doubted that he would find the newcomers there. By his understanding, they had just arrived after a journey of several days at least—surely they would wish first to rest. If they were staying in private quarters, however, there would be no way that Celeborn would be able to see them before the start of court. He had to hope, then, that they would be the wandering sort, and would have gotten restless since their arrival this morning. Out and about, perhaps he might find them. But what in Menegroth might a foreigner want to see? The dance hall? The armory? The government offices?

These people had come from Valinor. That was where her Majesty had come from.

“I have it. Come with me.”

The Garden was the most beautiful place in all of Menegroth. Somehow, the Queen had persuaded trees to grow here underground, reaching their branches all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Small birds flitted from branch to branch, singing constantly, and seemed never to tire. Every plant was in bloom all year, many of which did not grow anywhere else in Doriath. The ground was rich in clover that seemed never to wilt, no matter how long one had trod on it. Water cascaded over carved white stone in fountains that gushed night and day, for in the Garden there was neither night nor day—light simply existed at all hours, glowing in little starlike globes that hung in the air like fireflies. The Queen, when in town and not in court, preferred to spend her time here.

And sure enough, an unfamiliar person stood in the center of it, gazing around as though appreciating beloved, long-forgotten artwork.

He was about as tall as Celeborn, though somewhat older, with hair so blonde it could almost be described as yellow, braided in the most complex fashion Celeborn had ever seen. His clothing seemed overcomplicated as well, embroidered all over in silver and gold, with laces that seemed to serve no function beyond decoration. So this was what the Noldor looked like.

Celeborn had wanted very much to see the visitors, but he had not considered what he might do if he met one. Now that the time had come, Celeborn realized that he would prefer not to get involved. As of yet, the elf had not noticed them—perhaps they could sneak out of the Garden and none would be the wiser.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten that Thranduil was with him.

“Are you one of the Noldor?” Thranduil asked.

The elf was too graceful to jump in surprise, but his face did show alarm as he turned around. “Who are you?”

“My name is Thranduil Oropherion. My father is the king’s seneschal.” Thranduil was always perfectly confident. He simply spoke whenever he saw fit, to whomever he saw fit. It was terribly frustrating. “So, are you one of the Noldor? We heard that you were coming.”

The elf smiled at Thranduil. Perhaps he was fond of children, or perhaps he was simply patient. His eyes gave off a strange sort of light, rather like the king’s did. It was no surprise that they were related. “Why yes, I am. I am called Finrod, son of Finarfin and Eärwen. My mother is your king’s niece. A star shines on our meeting.”

“This is my cousin, Celeborn,” Thranduil added, erasing any possibility that Celeborn might escape unnoticed.

Celeborn bowed politely, and tried to say something respectful—but before he could stop himself, he instead blurted out, “Your accent is not so stupid as I thought it would be.”

Celeborn was certain that Finrod would be angry with him for saying something so rude, but instead the elf laughed. “I have had some practice with your language, or at least more practice than some. I hope that I have not disappointed you.”

“No, no! Of course not! I—forgive me, I should not have spoken.”

“Thus is the story of your life.”

“Shut up, Thranduil.”

Finrod seemed to find them amusing, which was better than the alternative. He did seem terribly patient—he could very well be much older than Celeborn had estimated. Yet at the same time he seemed somewhat distracted. He continually cast his eyes around the Garden, taking it all in. He seemed especially interested in the ceiling, as though he could not believe that he was underground.

“Her Majesty designed this place,” Celeborn told him.

“Queen Melian, correct? I understand that she is a Maia?”

Celeborn nodded. “I believe she was homesick.”

Finrod did not respond. He looked around more carefully now, as though trying to see past the trees, to study the Garden’s very walls.

It was not suspicious, per se, but it did seem strange. “Is something concerning you, my lord?”

Finrod seemed somewhat shaken, as though he had forgotten that he was among company, though he recovered quickly. “What? Oh, no, it is nothing important. I simply have never been anywhere like this before. It is absolutely beautiful. I did not know such beauty could be found so far below the surface of the world.”

Thranduil smiled proudly. “There is nowhere in the world like it. Menegroth is the jewel of Doriath, and Doriath is the most beautiful place in Arda.”

Finrod smiled. “You live in a lovely place,” he agreed.

“I would wish to live nowhere else.”

“You have never lived anywhere else,” Celeborn felt the need to comment, “so what would you know of it?”

Thranduil stared at him as though the answer was obvious. “Who needs the world when there is home?”

A shadow flitted across Finrod’s face at the word ‘home.’

Celeborn noticed. He had to ask. “My lord, if you miss Valinor so much, why did you leave?”

It was not the right thing to say. Finrod’s expression closed off, and the light in his eyes seemed suddenly cold. “I… I would rather not discuss such things.” He turned away from them, sparing one last glance at the Garden around him. “I am very pleased to have met the two of you. You are quite pleasant company. Yet I find that I am tired. If you will please excuse me.” And he left.

Thranduil gave Celeborn a flat look. “How wonderful. You offended him. You really have a way with words.”

“I had not intended to speak to him at all! You are the one who drew attention to us!”

“ _I_ have no problem speaking to anyone. I could have carried a conversation without issue. You are the one who ruined things by getting personal.”

That was true, and Celeborn could not deny it. Thranduil could be extremely unpleasant, but only when he wished to be—he could be downright charming if that was his aim. Celeborn, on the other hand, might have the best intentions in the world, but he never failed to mangle a social encounter. Perhaps he was an idiot. “…You still have not finished your copying.”

~


	3. Chapter 3

He first saw her at the formal banquet, held by the king to welcome his royal brother’s grandchildren into Doriath. Celeborn was so transfixed at the sight of her that he neglected the use of his other senses, and so completely missed the part where his Majesty mentioned her name. She was his Majesty’s niece, that much Celeborn could tell—she looked much like her brother Finrod, who stood beside her, no taller than she. No lamp shone directly on her, but her golden hair somehow drew in all light from the room and cast it around her. She seemed to glow.

She looked over at him. He caught her eye. She smiled. He knocked over his goblet.

He refused to look up from his plate for the rest of the banquet while his ears burned.

*

Mablung punched Celeborn in the arm later that evening. It was a habit of his, a sort of greeting. Celeborn’s bruise had not yet healed from the last time he had seen Mablung. At this rate, it never would. “Celeborn! This is supposed to be a party, and yet you sit in the corner alone. You are not usually so reclusive. What happened to you?”

Celeborn, however, was still in far too great a daze to care much whether his arm stayed purple for his entire life. “I think that I saw the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“ _Lady Luthien_ is the most beautiful woman in the world,” Daeron interrupted, throwing Celeborn a rude look over the harp he was tuning as though Celeborn had insulted him personally. A string had snapped—he planned to return to the orchestra soon.

“She was just a girl, cousin, and in staring at her you managed to spill wine over _everything,_ ” Thranduil scoffed, rolling his eyes. He sat in the corner only as a brief rest from dancing. “A mile of stained fabric, _and_ a waste of wine. This is a new low in idiocy, even for you.”

Beleg laughed. Beleg was not a party person. “How interesting, Thranduil. Meanwhile, I seem to remember you swearing starry-eyed that you would marry Nellas one day.”

Thranduil’s cheeks colored. “I was twenty-four years old!”

“I know. You were adorable. What happened?” Beleg smirked. Thranduil scowled at him.

“His Majesty’s niece?” Mablung asked Celeborn, though he surely knew the answer. Celeborn nodded. Mablung thought about it for a moment, then asked, “I do not want to judge, but do you not think you are aiming a bit high?”

Celeborn had assumed as much himself, and simply nodded again.

“Have you even spoken to her yet?” Mablung asked.

“If he wishes to impress her, he is probably best off keeping his mouth closed.”

“Shut up, Thranduil.”

“Do you intend to speak to her, though?” Mablung questioned. “Do you actually want to get her attention? For if this is your goal, we may advise you.”

Celeborn thought about it. She was absolutely beautiful, of course, but how was he supposed to talk to a person like that? It was difficult enough to speak to her brother, who did not seem half so intimidating. Celeborn did not feel he was meant to interact with such important people. A woman like that could never be interested in a fool like him. “I… doubt that that would turn out well.”

“There is beauty in love even at a distance,” Daeron declared, apparently past his offense at Celeborn’s disregard for the Lady Luthien. “Admiration from afar can draw two souls closer, though they may never truly be one. Only those who have known the pain of love unrequited can truly understand the emotion.”

Oh no. Celeborn did _not_ want to turn into Daeron. Daeron was a true genius in most respects, but on the subject of romance he was completely insufferable. Thankfully, Celeborn was spared needing to speak. “That sounds like no fun at all,” Beleg pointed out.

Daeron snapped at him, artistic airs gone, “Do you have _any_ constructive comments to make on the subject, or are you simply here to tease us all?”

“Oh, tease you all, certainly.”

Daeron sniffed. “Some day it will happen to you, you know.”

“Love?” Beleg snorted. “I should think not.”

“Well, you never know,” Mablung suggested. “I would not rule it out if I were you.”

“I am far too old for such foolishness.”

“I will mock you endlessly, when it happens,” Daeron threatened, drawing himself up to his fullest height. “One day, some beautiful maiden will appear in Doriath, you will fall head over heels, and I will never let you forget it.”

“You will be waiting until Dagor Dagorath.”

“So you say _now._ I wonder how long it will last?”

“And how are my affairs any business of yours?”

“I think we are getting off the topic,” Mablung interjected, heading off any further argument.

“We are discussing _Celeborn’s_ failings,” Thranduil added, having grown bored at the change in subject. Thranduil loved gossip, but only when it applied to those close to him.

“No, truly, there is nothing to discuss,” Celeborn insisted, now embarrassed that the subject had even arisen in the first place.

“Oh, of course. My apologies,” Daeron offered, nodding toward Beleg before turning his attention toward Celeborn. “So, the woman you fancy, tell us about her.”

Celeborn could feel his ears begin to burn again. “I do not even know her! I have seen her a grand total of once!”

“Obviously,” Daeron waved Celeborn’s complaints aside with a gesture of his hand, “but telling us what you think of her will let us know how far gone you are. Perhaps you are simply distracted by her beauty, and this is but a passing interest.”

“Yes,” Beleg added, “perhaps you will grow out of it, like Thranduil.”

“This is not about me!” Thranduil snapped, cheeks red.

“No, but Nellas is a friend of mine, and you are so easy to bait.”

“Anyway, Celeborn, it is not the end of the world,” Mablung reassured him.

“Yes, the world already ended when Daeron first saw Luthien dancing,” Beleg added, smirking.

“It felt like the destruction of one world and the beginning of the world anew all in the span of an instant,” Daeron raptured, eyes glazing over slightly as though he was reliving the moment. Beleg seemed to be stifling laughter. But Daeron seemed to shake himself back into the present. “But, young Celeborn, I cannot imagine that it would be the same for everyone. How do you feel about the lady of your affections?”

Celeborn had only seen her the once! How was he supposed to describe her? “She… she reminded me of the Sun.”

Thranduil pressed his hand to his forehead and made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Oh no. We have lost him.”

~


	4. Chapter 4

He did not expect to see her again so soon. In truth, he had not expected to see her again _ever_ —he was not entirely convinced that she had even been real, and was not instead some fabulous dream. Yet the last thing he expected was to see her here, crouching on the ground in the hallway near the throne room, ear to the door.

They stared at each other for several seconds in silence. Her eyes were very blue, and very hard. It felt as though she was trying to read something written on the inside of the back of his skull. Up so close, she was even _more_ beautiful, which made matters worse. Even in the hallway she seemed to glow. He still had no idea what her name was.

It took him several moments to even remember how to speak, but as he formed the words, “What are—” she interrupted him in a sharp whisper, “Shh!” and nodded her head meaningfully toward the door.

This was absolutely bizarre. He stepped close and crouched near her. “What are you doing?” he whispered as quietly as he could manage.

“I am spying on my brother!” she hissed back. “If you must stay, then hush!”

Celeborn pressed his ear to the door as well. He could hear Finrod in there, talking with their Majesties. They did not seem yet to be discussing anything important. “…Why are we spying on your brother?”

She stared at him again, as though it was obvious. “Because I would know all of his business, and he will not tell me!”

That would indeed seem to be the point of spying. Perhaps it was that obvious. He pressed his ear to the door again. It sounded as though they were talking about Menegroth, and how impressed Finrod was with it. None of this sounded terribly important. “…Does your brother know all of your business?”

She blinked at him. “Of course not. But _I_ must know absolutely everything.”

For some reason, that made complete sense. “Oh.” They both pressed their ears back to the door.

“I am glad you are pleased with my city,” his Majesty was saying, “but you seem far too interested in its structural design for a casual observer. Come, kinsman, you may be honest with me.”

“The Lord of the Waters has charged you with a great task,” her Majesty said.

“What? How did you—”

“My wife knows a great many things, young Finrod. She once served the Lady Estë. You need not be afraid.”

“…I have not discussed this with anyone. …I was out with my cousin recently, and I had a dream. The details are vague, but I saw attack from the North. Morgoth will strike.”

‘Morgoth’ was an unfamiliar word. Celeborn frowned. The word must have meant something to the glowing girl, though, for her eyes widened at the sound of it and her shoulders seemed to tense.

“I do not know when,” Finrod continued. “Perhaps next year, perhaps centuries from now, perhaps not for thousands of years. Yet I _know_ that it will happen, though I cannot say for certain how this knowledge was imparted to me.”

“The Powers work in mysterious ways,” his Majesty said. “Lord Ulmo prefers to remain involved in the affairs of Arda. You are blessed that He would choose to warn you.”

“But this is not all I know.”

The glowing girl shifted her position in an attempt to better hear the proceedings. Celeborn followed suit. His Majesty’s nephew had a prophetic dream of impending doom, and yet there could be more?

“I must find a place that can be made safe,” Finrod went on. “When Morgoth makes his move, the northern outposts held by my cousins will not be able to resist it, I am sure of it. My cousins are valiant and well organized, but they will surely be overthrown. I must find somewhere more secure, somewhere that can be hidden…”

A light voice that sounded almost like singing spoke softly on their side of the door. “What are the two of you up to?”

“Shh!” Celeborn and the glowing girl hissed in unison, attention torn away from the door.

Lady Luthien seemed surprised, but quickly smiled and placed a finger to her lips. “Of course,” she breathed, stepping back soundlessly and leaving them to their business.

The glowing girl immediately pressed her ear back to the door, but Celeborn felt a moment of shock. “…I just told the Lady Luthien to shh.”

“Shh!”

“And this is why I am so interested in your city,” Finrod was now saying. How much had Celeborn missed? “It is so defensible, and still so beautiful. Yet even if I had such a city of my own, I could never protect it as Doriath is protected. Thus I find myself at an impasse.”

There were a few moments of silence—perhaps their Majesties were having one of their wordless conversations—before his Majesty spoke. “If Lord Ulmo is He who has given you this warning, it seems best that you should rely upon Him for protection.”

“How is that?”

“There is a river in Beleriand we call the Narog, west of the River Sirion…”

“ _What_ are the two of you up to?” a much louder voice interrupted from the other end of the hallway, and Celeborn looked up to see Saeros glaring at them. “Spying on his Majesty? This is hardly behavior appropriate for you, Celeborn. Your mother and cousin will not be pleased when I tell them.”

Celeborn had heard of elves who had simply died instantaneously, souls leaving their bodies rather than enduring inescapable suffering. That sounded like a really good idea right now. How was he supposed to explain his actions to his mother? He himself hardly even knew what he was doing here! Oh no. Did this count as treason? Celeborn slowly rose to his feet, staring at Saeros in horror. He did not even notice that the glowing girl had grabbed his hand and bolted until the scenery began to rush past him.

*

Six hallways and three doors later, she finally stopped running. “Do you suppose we have lost him?”

He had not expected her to be so strong—he had never been _dragged_ quite so forcefully in his life. His shoulder ached a bit from where his arm had been tugged, yet his hand was still warm where she had touched it. Only moments ago, _he was holding her hand._ His mind had yet to fully process it. “I… I have no idea.”

She leaned against the wall and sighed, seemingly content in their distance. “Who was he, anyway? He seemed to think that he was very important.”

“His name is Saeros Ithilborion. He is on his Majesty’s council.”

“His accent is ridiculous.”

She had an accent herself, heavier than her brother’s, but Celeborn had learned his lesson by this point. “I agree.”

“And he knows your family?”

“My mother is also on the king’s council, and her cousin Oropher is his Majesty’s seneschal and one of his closest advisers.” Celeborn felt his stomach drop anew as he began to consider the inevitable consequences of his actions. “So, Saeros will surely tell my mother that I was spying on his Majesty and I will most certainly be in unfathomably deep trouble.”

She waved a delicate hand. “Oh, you need not worry. I will fix that.”

Celeborn blinked. “…How?”

“I will complain to the right people, and it will be taken care of.” She seemed entirely sure, as though she had never once run into such a problem she had been unable to resolve. The way she looked at him almost made him believe she _was_ capable of fixing it. “…Your name is Celeborn, correct?”

He nodded. She smiled and said, “I thought so,” but did not introduce herself. “Then you are the one my brother spoke to.”

Celeborn knew that he had not made a terribly good impression on her brother. He grimaced. “Unfortunately, yes, that was me.”

She laughed, and the light surrounding her seemed to grow brighter. Her laugh was even lovelier than Luthien’s.

She was much too far above him. They were both kinsmen of Elu Thingol, yes, but his family were councilmembers—her family was _royalty._ This could never turn out well.

And yet she talked to him.

He smiled back.

~


	5. Bonus

In their guest rooms, Finrod sighed. “Artanis.”

“Yes?”

“Queen Melian tells me that you were spying on us earlier.”

“Of course I was. Do not be silly.”

Finrod rolled his eyes. “I should have expected it, really. It is pointless to try to keep secrets from you, however much I might wish otherwise.”

“You should have simply included me in the first place. So,” she smiled, propping herself up on the couch and piercing him with that stare of hers, “tell me of this fortress you are planning.”

“I am not through with you yet! There was someone with you. Who was it?”

“Another kinsman of Elu Thingol. His name is Celeborn.” Her cheeks turned slightly pink, and her smile spread into an almost goofy grin. “I like him.”

“Oh no, not _that_ one.”

~


End file.
